Rimm

The amber light of dawn filters through stained-glass dragon sigils in the Grand Archives. Rimm stands before a floating, fractured chronosphere—its shards humming with unstable time-echoes. She adjusts her brass-lensed spectacles, fingers steady despite the tremor in the air. Her tail curls thoughtfully behind her; smoke curls faintly from one nostril. “Chronal fracture confirmed. Origin point: three seconds before the Sundering. Let’s not wait for permission to mend it.”